April tosses and turns in her bed,
tucked into layers of
and duckling down duvets.
huckleberry hums wrap around sighs —
a small symphony for none.
warm honey tea welcomes never-ending
salt-tears to edge sweetness.
Rain rolls from the jawline,
spilling down the spider-silk mattress,
the walnut frame,
through the peach pit floorboards
and into the thirsty soil.
taken away by a torrential trickle,
the sweet house sinks
into a now muddy foundation.
that pint-sized insomniac gets
coaxed into a chamomile hibernation.
let her rest
after a brief breath,
she May just bloom again.
Talia Fish is a senior at the University of South Florida majoring in Theatre Performance with a minor in Creative Writing. She is from a run-down town about an hour north of Tampa where nothing good or interesting ever happens. She takes solace in her cats and her work, whether it’s rainy writing sessions or low-quality zoom rehearsal calls.